


choice

by ashinan



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Character Study, Coda, Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, Eldritch monster, Episode 62, Frumpkin (Critical Role) is an Emotional Support Animal, Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan
Summary: Things shift after Fjord’s talk with Caleb, just not in a way Fjord expects.





	choice

**Author's Note:**

> dahlings! last episode murdered me dead and as you all know my response to being emotionally compromised is to write fic. so here is an episode coda for 62; takes place after Fjord and Caleb's convo. this fic also includes a bit of a headcanon of mine re: Frumpkin. if you're curious, check out [ Starwalker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901264) which includes a bit of background there. otherwise, enjoy lovelies!

They reshape the entire house to their will. Fjord’s never had a home, a house really, or at least one that stays in one place for forever. Each house in the district matches in its own eerie way, subtle differences allowing for individuality, but all still uniform. Granted, that isn’t exactly true for their gifted abode. The Mighty Nein aren’t exactly known for _subtly_. So much for keeping on the down low until they figured shit out.

Caduceus smiles lazily while the stone leaps out of the way for his huge ass tree. Jester wanders from room to room, arms full of acrylics and primers, paint brushes sticking out of her hair like a deranged peacock. The library slash laboratory explodes more often than not, Yeza’s shrill: “Everything’s fine!” not exactly comforting, more so when Nott dashes out of the lab cackling with her hair on fire and with crossbow bolts spitting, flaming, sizzling. Beau throws her entire being into hostessing, badgering Caduceus to teach her baking and cooking and cocktail making, her smile terrifying whenever she shoves her concoctions into Fjord’s hands. Yasha buys a floppy garden hat and smiles beautifully wide when Caleb’s earthen cat paw disintegrates and rains dirt down upon her.

Caleb installs the alarm wire around his room, permanently affixing the silver thread at hip height, the barest glimpse catching in the fire light. Fjord buys a lock for his room. Beau’s snoring still reaches through the wall but it’s strangely comforting now, something acquired. Fjord closes the shutters at night; he doesn’t need to, not with the perpetual darkness, but it’s routine. Routine is all that’s holding him together.

And then Fjord comes back to Caleb sitting on his bed, legs folded beneath him, Frumpkin sprawled in his lap in content kitty bliss.

Caleb asks and Fjord answers and that spark between them roars with ignition. Fjord’s scarred hand tingles the entire night; sleep dodges his intent, thoughts running fast and then faster. Replaying Caleb’s words. Replaying how easy it had been to ask for time and have it given. No questions. No strings. Fjord tentatively laying down a boundary, resigned to it being trampled over, only to have Caleb sit back and nod. Allowing Fjord this single piece of himself that hasn’t been stripped from him through forced action or touch or situational pressure.

Caleb standing when Fjord implies he doesn’t care – and that’s not what he meant, not how he meant to phrase it. Caleb hurt and desperate to know Fjord in a way he’s never allowed anyone to know him; even when he remade himself into a sailor, none knew of his spotty past. No one bothered asking.

Caleb had asked. Had left open the door. Scarred palm to scarred palm. Fjord rolls onto his side, tugging a pillow to his chest. Nott had stolen into his room sometime before Caleb and had thrown bioluminescent sparkles all over Fjord’s ceiling. Starlight. Constellations. Fjord gently presses his hand against his sternum, the thud of his heart matching the thrum of his scar.

To be known is as terrifying as having a permanent residence. Fjord doesn’t – understand how that works.

His sleep is blissfully dream free. When he wakes, a weight has settled on his chest, a low purr rumbling through his ribcage. Frumpkin sits pretty, paws tucked beneath, chubby little body fit perfectly against the contour of Fjord’s chest. His tail flicks lazily. When Fjord raises a brow, Frumpkin’s purr thrums louder, each blink slow and content and pleased as punch.

Fjord says, gravelly and low, “I locked the damn door.”

A single ear flicks forward then back, but otherwise Frumpkin doesn’t move. Just purrs and purrs and purrs. The gentle lull chucks Fjord back into sleep, his fingers bunched in Frumpkin’s ruff. His dreams fill with starlight and a bright pair of luminous eyes, opal white and misty, a presence so impossibly large that Fjord cannot comprehend. Constellations shift as a massive head topped with a crown of snow tipped mountains towers above him; a gentle pressure settles against his chest, right where Uk’otoa had ripped the orb free. Comforting. Safe. _Known_. The starlight curls around him, as protective as a child’s blanket against the dark, and Fjord sleeps.

Obnoxious knocking pulls him from his dreams. Frumpkin hasn’t left, has instead stretched out a proprietary paw over Fjord’s chest, claws flexing against the divot of Fjord’s sternum, right where the dream comfort had settled. Swallowing, Fjord gently runs his palm down Frumpkin’s spine. Chews his words around until he clears his throat and says, accent lost, “You don’t have to keep an eye.”

Frumpkin yawns, teeth flashing and tongue extending before he resettles, tail flicking forward to settle around his paws. He blinks. Fjord blinks back. Another knock, this time louder and more pronounced. Frumpkin grumbles when Fjord pushes up, cradling Frumpkin’s bum to keep him steady. He calls, “Come in!”

Beau pushes her way inside, pausing when her gaze hits on Fjord’s juggling act, cat and tangled blanket and the sudden embarrassment of being without a shirt on. Fjord swings his legs over the side of the bed, tugging the sheet around him like a very loose robe. With an offended chirp, Frumpkin crawls up onto Fjord’s shoulder, wraps his long, fluffy tail around Fjord’s throat, and balances when Fjord rolls his shoulders.

“You have a Frumpkin on you,” Beau deadpans. Fjord hums, steadying Frumpkin’s hind leg as he stands and grabs one of the loose Xhorasian shirts Yasha had brought back for him. Huh. This’ll be a challenge.

Frumpkin refuses to move, even when Fjord yanks the shirt over his head. Thankfully, the collar is wide and Frumpkin pops out the other side content and still perched like a fluffy, fat gargoyle. Fjord scratches his chin. “What’s up?”

“Shit, right.” Beau clears her throat, spine straightening. Oh no. Her voice goes high and tight, a little breathless like she’s failing at seduction but also climbed an entire mountain without shoes on. “Mr Caduceus Clay invites you to breakfast.”

As soon as Beau’s lips stretch in a facsimile of a pleasant smile, Fjord holds up a hand, “You gotta make the smile more natural; you’re not murdering me in my sleep, you’re calling me to breakfast. How would you say it to a pretty girl?”

“I wouldn’t, I’d drag her back to bed,” Beau says, crossing her arms.

“Okay, no.” Fjord rolls his eye fondly. “Why are you doing your host spiel to me? I live here.”

Beau shrugs, expression relaxing back into familiarity. “Gotta practice somehow. Caleb’s study buddy really put the hurt on.”

At the mention of Essik, Fjord grinds his teeth. There’s something off about the Shadowhand, aside from the obvious - most of the Nein seem to have forgotten that their favourite Drow is a spy. Considering his status, he’s likely a _very good_ spy. And with his eye on Caleb, Essik has an in to their home, to their lives, to their plans. He was also coming around inquiring after Caleb more and more as the days progressed. Not that that had anything to do with Fjord.

Beau steps aside so Fjord can get by, following right on his heels, and hurries Fjord down toward the dining hall. Frumpkin cleans his paw, content to balance somehow on Fjord’s shoulders. Probably should ask Caleb about that too; Frumpkin rarely strays far from Caleb unless he’s commanded to.  

Caleb’s not at breakfast and Beau goes stomping off to unearth him from whatever project he’s immersed himself in. Caduceus gifts them a glorious morning spread, unique and much tastier than the generic food Jester and Caduceus tend to create. Plums soaked in wine sauce, oatmeal seasoned with proper Xhorasian spice, a plethora of toppings for omelettes made with soft crumbly cheese. Frumpkin wanders off when Fjord protects his plate from sneaky cat paws.

General chatter revolves around what else they can do to their gifted home and Fjord begs off assisting Jester with painting a glorious mural for Nott and Yeza. Beau blows into the dining room when most of the food has gone cold, shoves an alarming amount of biscuits into her pockets, and takes off again. Caleb doesn’t show.

Throughout the day, Frumpkin pops up whenever Fjord’s stationary for too long. It’s not Caleb keeping an eye; Caleb putters around the house just as frequently as Jester, usually rearranging lost furniture or falling into deep discussions with Beau over the merit of creating a barrier around the house similar to his Tiny Hut spell. Everytime Fjord catches his gaze, Caleb’s smile goes soft and almost fond, before he gives a small wave and turns back to his task. Thankfully, no one is around to mock just how effective those looks are. Well, except the damn cat. Frumpkin just won’t stop staring at Fjord.

Fjord spends most of the day with Yasha in the training room, setting everything up and repositioning the dummies Caduceus had crafted out of stone and Jester had dressed up in pretty outfits. Frumpkin sprawls lazily atop one of the dummies, chirping at Yasha for attention and melting into a blissful kitty puddle when Yasha provides it. Otherwise, he stares at Fjord. A lot.

As the day winds down, Fjord finds himself up on Caduceus’ tower, eyeing how Caduceus and Jester string globules of actual light inside tiny jars. Fjord settles himself under the massive tree, soaking in what little rays of Daylight he can, dozing with his friend’s chatter as background noise. When he opens his eyes, a striped face blinks from above him. Frumpkin yawns, settling in comfortably on a branch heavy with bottled sunlight. Still staring. Following? He really needs to talk to Caleb about this. Maybe magical Starwalker cats have a taste for half-orcs? That’s a terrifying thought.

Fjord points at Frumpkin. “You’re not allowed to eat me. I made Caleb a deal.”

Another slow blink and then the gentle rumbling of Frumpkin’s purr mixes in with the pleasant buzz of Caduceus’ beetles. Fjord gives up. He’ll corner Caleb later and hand him back his weird cat.

Strangely, their paths do not cross aside from the occasional intense eye contact. Caleb drags Jester and Nott into the lab after dinner, leaving Fjord a chance to create a training schedule between Beau, himself, and Yasha. Eyes burrow into the back of his neck the entire time and more than once, Fjord catches Frumpkin perched up high, watching. Always watching.

By the time the concept of ‘bedtime’ comes around, Fjord’s skin prickles and needles with a different type of watching. That magical center of him where Uk’otoa lingers _boils_ , sudden and unnecessary, and Fjord bids goodnight to Beau and Yasha through gritted teeth. He staggers his way up the stairs, gouging the railing with his nails, his vision cloudy with murky darkness and errant bubbles.

Closing the door behind him, Fjord stumbles to the bed, dropping down on the edge with a groan. His head splits with Uk’otoa’s displeasure, with its fury, with its never ending godsdamned temper tantrum. Eyes closed. Breathe deep. Fjord counts inside his head, _onetwothree_ , and narrows his thoughts into simply existing. The roll of his stomach coupled with his molecules practically shaking apart has him spiralling.

Time doesn’t matter within perpetual darkness, but Fjord finally opens his eyes when the nausea fades and Uk’otoa’s ire reduces to a petulant simmer. His hand shake, his skin prickles; the delicate tendons in his wrist bulge with strain. He can’t keep this up. He just can’t. Exhaustion drags at his eyelids; his joints beg for a reprieve he can’t give them. Rubbing a hand over his mouth, Fjord stands. Staggers. _Fuck_.

Closing the shutters against the delicate twinkle of the Daylight tree, Fjord leans his forehead against rough wood. Maybe it’ll be another sleepless night. Laughable, that. His magic _hurts_ , shards of ice in his blood, under his skin, needling him with its insistence. Uk’otoa curls, waiting for the vulnerability of sleep, and Fjord can do naught to stop it.

Mechanically, Fjord goes through the motions. Finds a basin and fills it with warm water. Cleans and trims his claws. Checks the lock a third time; Nott had scrunched her nose in offense at the flimsy lock Fjord had purchased, but it was more for his peace of mind than keeping anyone out. Routines. Dressing for bed, Fjord untucks the sheets and climbs in, his skin rippling like the surface of a disturbed lake.

The moment his head hits the pillow, he’s beneath the waves. Sinking, falling, bubbles disappearing into the encroaching darkness. Fjord lifts a hand, reaching for the dying light, lungs tight with air. Fear curdles his stomach. Resignation warms his eyes, tears lost amongst the ocean depths. He has to make a choice.

The last vestiges of light snuff out and Fjord is left suspended in the void. The water ripples with movement, slow and menacing and delighted. Uk’otoa’s eye opens, blinding Fjord, while the water goes sharp with cold. Fjord’s jaw locks at the shock of it. Pain, inside and out, and Fjord can’t dislodge the scream building in his throat.

 _Watching_.

“No more,” Fjord whispers, begs, even as Uk’otoa’s pupil sharpens. The pressure tightens, worming beneath the thin barrier of his skin, sinking into his marrow. Forcing him still. Fjord panics.

 _Punishment_.

“No!” Fjord shouts, struggles, kicking frantically as his chest splits open, pours out blood in a thick cloud of red. The last of Fjord’s precious air escapes him in a flurry of bubbles. His breast bone cracks. His lungs squeeze. Uk’otoa thrums, loud and impossible and pleased as Fjord struggles against inevitably.

Darkness slips suddenly over Uk’otoa’s eye. Fjord’s lungs fill with air, the water calms, and his chest stops bleeding. A rush of motion blurs the water and Uk’otoa _screams_ , not in anger but in shocked pain. The shadow of Uk’otoa’s form shifts and writhes as a massive bloom of starlit night barrels into him.

The water shifts, the slither of scales against scales and the serpentine whip of a tail churning the depths into a mess of bubbles and darkness. Occasionally, an eye flickers open, only to close with another paralyzing screech of pain. Blood muddies the water. Fjord’s lungs burn with the need to inhale, to allow the water to drown him, but he can’t take his gaze off whatever agitates Uk’otota.

A flash of starlit fur and claws made of nebulae swipe past Fjord, catching a sneaking tendril making for him. Whirling, Fjord can’t catch sight it. Darkness makes up most of Uk’otoa’s prison; something presses in on all sides. Something _hungry_ , a different hunger than what Uk’otoa invokes, but starving nonetheless. The darkness above shifts just slightly, a burst of starlight and sizzling magma, before Uk’otoa shrieks again.

_Betrayal!_

The hiss slams into Fjord’s brain like a merchant ship running over a fishing vessel. Bubbles escape, Fjord’s lungs screaming, the wound blooming with fresh blood. Dizziness spirals Fjord backwards. The darkness parts, the cosmos stretch, and an aurora slices through the water. An impossible shadow lashes out from within the midst of Uk’otoa’s coiling body. Opal eyes and a barnacled crown. Condensed starlight and a coral tail, colour splashing through the darkness with each vicious attack.

The sheer presence of the other being overcomes and masks Uk’otoa’s usual pressure. For the first time since these damnable dreams began, Fjord has agency over his body. He blows out a few bubbles and swims after them, exhausted and straining and desperate for that gulp of fresh air. Another bellow of sheer rage, answered by a leviathan like roar. The water trembles. Fjord kicks harder.

 _Mine!_ Uk’otoa howls, and Fjord glances back, glances down, and the massive structure that _is_ Uk’otoa lunges upward, fast, faster, straight toward Fjord with its thousands of shifting teeth on display. All the eyes open on Uk’otoa’s body, blinding Fjord. Something slams into his chest and something else shoves against his back.

Jerking awake, Fjord tumbles out of bed with a gagged shout, water pouring from his lungs, between his teeth, copper mixing unnaturally with the salt. He pants against the hardwood floor. Chest pain, joint exhaustion, and a throbbing headache. To his left, the silhouette of the Falchion, damp and dim, with its eye closed for the first time. Pushing upward, his muscles scream. His wrists shake violently.

A thump. Frumpkin chirps as he trots over, arching to rub his little body against Fjord’s arm. Fjord laughs. Spits more blood and brine onto the floor. Exhaustion removes his accent. “Don’t tell Caleb.”

Frumpkin quivers, back legs dancing, luminous gaze focusing on Fjord. Almost accusing. Fjord shoves back until he leans against his bed, legs splayed, hand against his chest. Uk’otoa hadn’t pulled his punches. Flicking his hand out, he gropes at the internal churning of icy shards and ocean depths, of magic tainted by sacrifice, but nothing happens. Fjord sighs.

“You’d think with him getting beat to shit, he’d be too distracted to take away my powers.” Fjord thunks his head against the bed frame, wincing as his headache spikes. Frumpkin pads over, fat and fluffy and striped, an assessment in his gaze. Never has Fjord been judged by a _cat_ before. Frumpkin pushes up on his hind legs, front paws settling against Fjord’s ocean damp skin. He flicks his ears and meows.

Coughing against the brackish burn at the back of his throat, Fjord says, “Don’t look at me like that. He’ll give them back; he needs me to let him out. If he takes away all my powers, he’s just a snake in a cage.”

Strangely enough, Frumpkin has the same incredulous look as his owner when Fjord’s spouting bullshit. Another meow, this one slightly warbley and irritated. Fjord draws his palm down Frumpkin’s spine. “Don’t worry.”

Another yowl. Frumpkin leaps up onto Fjord’s shoulder, pricking him with extended claws, and nipping at Fjord’s ear in annoyance. Fjord sighs. Holds out his hand again but no illusionary bird rises. “If you’re watching, Caleb, I’ll come down to you. Just - just give me a second.”

Frumpkin nips his ear again, not hard enough to break skin, but as though he’s comforting. Fjord relaxes back into Frumpkin’s fluff, closing his eyes and just breathing. Ignores the flash of pain at the back of his thoughts, where Uk’otoa lingers like a petulant and feral creature, waiting for that instant when Fjord gives in. Not that he’ll give Uk’otoa the satisfaction. Damn sea snake can pout all it wants, Fjord is _tired_.

Another prickle of claws and Fjord nods. “Yeah, it’s probably smart. Get off, I have to put on a shirt.”

After changing into a loose shirt and scrubbing his face clear of salt and sweat and fear, Fjord plonks Frumpkin back on his shoulder and sneaks out into the gloom. The delicate lights from Caduceus’ tree dapple the carpet as Fjord makes his way downstairs. Rounding the bannister, Fjord pauses before Caleb’s door; he shouldn’t bother him with this. Frumpkin rubs against his cheek, claws pricking through Fjord’s shirt, concerned chirp ramping up the anxious hum of Fjord’s heart.

Knock on the door. Ask Caleb for a moment. Say - say something. Because if he doesn’t - well. Exhaling, Fjord lifts his hand. Curls his fingers. Frumpkin purrs warm against him, the heavy weight along his shoulders strangely comforting; probably should ask Caleb about that as well. He had to be missing his cat.

Gentle, Fjord raps his knuckles against the worn wood. There’s a shuffle inside, a quiet, “ _Verdammt_ ,” and the scrape of a chair hastily shoved back. Fjord shifts on his feet. Reaches up and scritches Frumpkin’s chin again, willing himself to remain, to not retreat and hide under the blankets like a child.

The door groans open. Caleb’s dressed down, hair tied up in a loose ponytail, long bangs falling over his forehead in lovely waves. His loose collared shirt is partially undone, sleeves shoved up his arms and held in place with - with red rope. Fjord blinks, slow as molasses, his thoughts scatting into static and condensed silence. Frumpkin meows, a loud hello, and leaps from Fjord’s shoulder to Caleb’s. He settles contentedly with his nose in Caleb’s messy hair.

Caleb’s smile flashes quick and surprised, pleased. “Fjord, I was not expecting you. Come in, _bitte_.”

Swallowing, Fjord nods and slips past Caleb. The door closes with a finality that has Fjord dizzy; this was a terrible idea. Regardless of how kind Caleb has been, dumping the entirety of Fjord’s sad story onto his frail shoulders has Fjord itching. It is not within him to burden others. He’s already saddled Caleb with his lack of leadership since the Iron Shepherds; how would he respond to the story of Sabien? Of the temple Sisters? Of how and why Fjord was chosen to be aboard Vandren’s ship?

Gods, and that’s not even going into all the shit that’s gone down since _meeting_ the Nein. Does Caleb expect that of him too? To speak of Avantika? Of the Iron Shepherds? Of how Fjord’s been quietly breaking apart, piece by piece, until nothing remains but this version of himself, caught in Uk’otoa’s trap like an unfortunate and rather stupid tuna. And now with a new player infringing upon Uk’otoa’s hell, Fjord’s definitely in over his head.

Caleb putters about, oblivious to the turmoil boiling in Fjord’s mind, Frumpkin balanced easy on his shoulder. “You caught me going over one of Essik’s spells. The breakdown of dunamacy is rather fascinating; it reads similar to transmutation and divination, though it also has aspects of evocation.”

“Uh huh,” Fjord says. Caleb scoops up an old teapot on his desk, snapping his fingers to light a flame at the end, gently smoothing it over the base. The display of easy magic has Fjord’s fingers tingling, his own magic trapped behind a wall of scales and menacing eyes. Uk’otoa bares its teeth in the back of Fjord’s head. Enraged. Fjord closes his eyes and breathes.

Caleb pauses in locating another teacup. “Fjord?”

“Can - uh - can you make sure we’re by ourselves?” Fjord asks, clawing for time. “Don’t want Nott or Beau bursting in.”

“ _Ja_ , of course,” Caleb says, placing the teapot down gently as he heads for the far door.

Frumpkin twists his head around to keep an eye on Fjord, luminous gaze flashing opal white for a single moment, and Fjord exhales. Gathers all his secrets up in his chest. Shoves a palm against his heart, desperate to cage the vulnerable beat. When Caleb flicks the lock on the lab door, Fjord chews on his tongue. Now or never.

Soft, so soft that Fjord can barely hear himself over the howl of his blood pumping, Fjord drops Vandren’s accent and says, “Caleb.”

Frumpkin perks up. Caleb freezes, fingers still on the lock, his shoulders jumping in surprise. Fjord licks his lips. Clears his throat. Locates that modicum of self that he’s buried beneath charisma and reinvention and a desire to be _other_ , and repeats louder, “Caleb.”

Caleb finishes locking the other door. Fjord’s claws bite into the fabric of his shirt, almost pierce into the frightened flutter of his heart. With a nod, Caleb pivots, striding directly up to Fjord. Frumpkin settles down contentedly, somehow able to keep balance. As Caleb stops before Fjord, chin tilted up to maintain eye contact, Fjord contemplates Misty Stepping away. Or, well, he would if Uk’otoa wasn’t being a little shit again.

“Hullo, Fjord. It is nice to meet you proper,” Caleb says, holding out his hand. Relief slaps Fjord upside the head, so dizzying he sags, taking Caleb’s hand in both of his. He rubs his thumb into the meat of Caleb’s palm, nails flirting with the jagged scar that matches his own. Caleb smiles.

“I’d like to tell you some things,” Fjord says, still in his own voice, in his own words, the dusty chest of emotions and memories and absolute fuckery Fjord has stuffed down over the years desperate to open.

Caleb’s smile softens, the electric blue of his eyes deep as the ocean depths. “I would be honoured to know you.”

And Fjord believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> please do leave a comment or some love; it means a lot to the less noticed side of the fandom! come follow me on [my fandom twitter](https://twitter.com/ashinanfandom?s=09) (where I am crying all the time about critrole) or [my nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/assinan13?s=09) if you want a bit more spice in your life!!


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